


Bad End: Devoured

by scytherei



Category: Fantrolls - Fandom
Genre: Art Trade, Fankids - Freeform, Fantrolls, Gen, Humans on Alternia, Lowkey Torture Porn, Rainbowdrinkers, Sort-of Homestuck, Technically Hard Vore, Was supposed to be explicitly hard vore with highkey torture porn but i pussied out sue me, alien vampires, this has been a wip for like 6 months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 14:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14450769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scytherei/pseuds/scytherei
Summary: In which Luke makes a miscalculation.





	Bad End: Devoured

**> Be in the wrong place, at the wrong time.**

It's not a tall order to make. As it stands, you are already being held against your will in some psychotic bitch's torture porn basement. With your arms restrained just far enough above your head to be uncomfortable, you couldn't locate if you wanted to. And you really, really want to. 

But maybe you should start from the beginning. The root of the problem. Yes, no matter how you look at it, it's _his_ fault.

**> Be you, but an hour ago.**

You would say it all started with he barged in-- which would be enough to digest on its own, really. The guy (at least, you assume) is troll-like, but clearly not a troll-- a mutant of his caliber would have been culled long ago. His uniform (Alternian Fleet, oddly) covers the majority of his body, and a helmet rolling off into the room tells you his face should be hidden, but it isn't, and his strange pink-pale skin and disturbing blue on white eyes meet your gaze head-on. He's hornless, and his hair looks like the sickly straw colour you've seen on elderly, gold-blooded helmsmen. He would creep you out if he wasn't completely devoid of any threatening characteristics, and even then you're unsettled. But that might have more to do with the gun he's holding than his face.

Your captor looks far happier to see him than you are, at any rate. A sharp grin you've learned to hate has spread across her face. Welcome, she greets him, in the same sickly-sweet tone she'd used on you while poisoning your coffee. Her free hand is placed innocently over her mouth, with its partner (sheathed in a claw-like specibus) hidden behind her back. He isn't buying it. Based on his tone, it's because he's heard it before. Not that this stops her.

They're going back and fourth, you don't have the context to understand most of it. You garner that they've met, and while he didn't come for any reasons relating to you, personally, he has some objections about your unexpected presence. Naturally, this makes you nervous. You're not fond of strangers with guns being uncomfortable with your existence. Thankfully, his isn't that brand of objection. What brand it is doesn't matter that much, because she takes his concerns and tells him where to shove them. For a tiny girl, nasty speech seems to come naturally. You've never favoured girls much.

The argument escalates, and sooner or later, leads to a 'make me', but instead of that going the sexy direction it sometimes does for trolls, the alien (you assume) raises the gun, sights aimed on her. 

This surprises your captor (Ritosa, you hear her called), but doesn't seem to phase her. Her grin widens, eyes a few degrees colder, and she _dares_ him, promises he wont do it, goads him and insists he doesn't have the guts to pull the trigger. At first, you think she might be right-- he's trying to be calm, and his hold on the weapon tells you he's familiar with it, but something in his eyes is shaky somehow, like he isn't sure of whether he can pull the trigger himself. There's a haziness about him, sweat on his brow. You don't know if he's afraid of her specifically, or dislikes killing in general. You never get to find out, either, because the verdict comes down right about the time she says something to the effect of, "It's this lack of nerve that makes your species so pathetic," and a bang echoes through the hive like the slam of a gavel in a courtroom. 

You've never seen a mood change so fast.

Ritosa's face has fallen from her grin into a numb confusion, like she can't believe what just happened. Maybe the surprise is warranted-- at some point during her megalomaniac rants, you'd already gathered she has some kind of telepathic ability. Or empathy. You can't tell. You know she'd been confident beyond her ego only seconds ago, and now looks like she's been struck dumb. Whether the speechlessness is from shock or from the bullet in her throat, you can't tell. She makes a hissing, gurgling noise, spurting her blue-green hue in place of any words (the alien flinches as the spray mists his cheek and nose) as she falls gracelessly to her knees, her free hand closing over the front of her neck in a sort of desperation. Her eyes show a hazy fear when she figures out she cant catch her breath. With a wound like that, it's a race to see whether she'll choke and drown in her own blood or exsanguinate first. You'd guess the former-- in an uncomfortably long silence (a few minutes at most, but longer than you've ever cared to stare at a dying troll), she slumps fully to the floor, a set of dull, hazy eyes fixed on you (or as fixed as a corpses eyes can be). 

The alien (Luke, she'd called him), stands still for a long time, as if waiting for her to peek back up and surprise him, and only breathes a long, long sigh of relief perhaps 10 minutes after her last attempt at a breath, when he's confident she isn't getting back up. He locks his eyes on her a few seconds more, then shifts his attention to you. He looks startled, like he forgot that you were there, and you can't think of anything clever to say.

This is fine, he doesn't deign to break the silence himself just yet. He strides over, putting a hand on your restraints before thinking better of it. He pauses, probably realising his helmet is off, then looks you in the eye, and addresses you. Now that he's not busy shouting obscenities at someone, you notice his accent is not only surprisingly normal, but outright familiar. He sounds like a native Common Alternian speaker, which you wouldn't expect from an alien. He's trying to be clever, says he'd hate to kill you after all that trouble, and that it'd be really great if you could do him a favour and not mention what you saw to anyone.

At this point, you'd do anything he asks. He does still have 5 bullets left, after all. So you nod, and swallow the lump in your throat.

He gives an uneasy kind of half-smile, and looks over your restraints-- standard zip ties, she didn't use the chains this time (good thing, you have no idea where the key would be). He frees you with a swipe from a pocket knife, and you rub your wrists, frowning. You haven't been there much longer than overnight, but the deep moss-green bruises on your wrists look like they'll take weeks to heal. She teeth she'd pulled (bottom and top left canines) are already beginning to regrow, you know because your stupid tongue wont leave the small points alone. Your back hurts, you feel like shit, and you could probably use a cup of coffee if you weren't sure the sight of it wouldn't give you flashbacks.

You thank him for his patronage and scurry for the door, eager to be literally anywhere but here. He doesn't follow, and you think to ask why, but decide it's none of your business.

(You are, after all, an NPC)

**> Be Luke.**

Now, instead of being an NPC, you decide to be Luke. And as it turns out, today is one of those days where being Luke is more difficult than it sounds. Your heart is racing, your blood pressure has your ears ringing. Your face is sticky with blood that doesn't belong to you. The smell is off somehow under the pervasive copper scent all upper hued blood has, but you can't place why. Your mind is occupied with several dozen thoughts that you deem more important than that one, though, and more feelings than you'd like to think. Exhilaration: while you aren't the pacifist you once tried to be, killing is still a last resort, and not a feeling you're accustomed to. Not one you want to be accustomed to. Astonishment: you would never admit it, but you'd wondered for a few seconds if Ritosa was right-- you'd been threatening her life since you'd first woke up in this basement, but actually going through with it... Even your moirail, whose philosophy seems to revolve around killing anyone vaguely inconvenient, had advised against escalating the issue, for reasons you equal parts understood (you aren't stupid) and wanted to deny (your pride wants you to be). 

Yes, at your core, Ritosa had managed to shake you up in a way few trolls had managed, clouding your judgement by playing your temper like a child playing with ants then outwitting you when your impulse and anger outweighed your common sense. And with her dead on the floor, you're a bit more willing to admit to a bit of fear. Even now, her corpse makes you uneasy-- you feel apprehensive every time you turn your back to her. But you're here, the damage is done, and it'd have been a lot of energy for a little gain if you didn't snoop at least a little.

You're hoping somewhere on the shelves or in her desk is a map of the forest, maybe even to the runes you'd been looking for originally (if you could ever be so lucky). Maybe notes-- she meets, or met, enough trolls, and while you doubt her omniscience her knowledge was wide enough you can't help but hope she wrote SOMETHING down. Hell, you'd settle for finding some scrap she'd stolen off you at some point; some part of you just doesn't want to go home empty-handed. You probably spend a good few hours digging through her desk, seated amidst an assortment of Crap. Razorblades, spare scalpels. A needle that makes you shiver when you think of what it must be for. Syringes, bottles of what must be sedatives (you pocket those for later-- you never know when you'll need anesthetic), jars of fangs and bottles of... you don't want to know, actually.

You find a diary, too, and while a quick skim of its pages shows it to be mostly pressed flowers, clipped butterfly wings, and tangents written in East Alternian script, you pocket it anyway. If you can stomach reading her words, maybe translating it will be useful. You check the upper cabinet next, and find a jar labelled with your name. Sure enough, when you open it, it's a collection of the teeth she'd snagged on your previous encounters. You grimace at the fact her collection is larger than you'd really like, and have to think for minute if you actually want these back. Begrudgingly, you start to pocket them, but pause as you hear something that isn't your molars clinking against glass. A sticky, shifting noise, like prying a wet towel that dried up off the floor. 

And in that moment, it dawns on you what bothered you about the smell-- the subtle, wrong-feeling scent under the copper. The reason it felt wrong, you realise, is that the distinct tropical berry scent teals can have, is missing here. In its place is something else, and it's only hours later, when you hear that sound, that it dawns on you.

The smell is that of a green, slightly melon-y mint. 

**>???**

Your head hurts. Your body hurts. Your throat _really_ hurts. 

You feel hazy, like that feeling when you take too much cold medicine and wake up almost hungover. Or like you're too feverish to leave your bed. You can only crack your eyes open-- it's so bright, it hurts your head. Sitting up makes you dizzy, but oddly not nauseated. There's an odd feeling in your stomach, actually; you can't place it. Your mouth is dry, when you try to swallow it stings. You can't tell if you're hungry, thirsty, or both. Your lungs feel heavy with every breath, like there's something...

Your breath hitches, and you cough-- a dry, wheeze that rapidly turns into wet hacking as you cough globs of something or other (it tastes like something gone bad) onto the floor, and it's after your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness that you notice the colour, and your brain catches up to your body. It's blood, your blood, on a floor-- your floor?-- in a mass half-dried puddle spreading far beyond what you could have possibly coughed up. You quickly realise this is why you're so sticky, that's what smells... interesting-- to you, the metallic smell is appealing, but it's overpowered by a stench of death. Death? Who died?

You?

The crash of glass shattering makes your ears ring in your skull and your head whips straight to find that you aren't alone in your (presently disgusting) basement. There's something alive in there. He smells like iron and salt and that shit Dresir drinks (the thought popped into your head, but you can't remember who Dresir is when you try), and it isn't quite appealing but absolutely does get your attention. Your head is so hazy, you can't make out his face, or if it's one you know, and you can't bring yourself to care, either. Your body moves almost of its own accord as you pry yourself from the ground, stumbling more than once as you rise, shakily, to your feet. 

You hear a loud bang and feel pressure in your shoulder, it should knock you over but doesn't. You feel something whizz past your ear on the second bang. The third goes into the ceiling-- he doesn't have time to aim. You close the distance between the two of you, snatching hold of his hand and SQUEEZING it as tightly as you can, forcing him to fire a fourth, and then a fifth shot into the roof. The gun clicks empty and you keep squeezing on principle, on instinct, you only feel satisfied when you feel popping under your fingers and hear him hiss in pain, trying to pull his hand from yours and seeming alarmed when he can't. Your grip is strong, stronger than it should be or ever has been. You keep moving of your own accord, almost on autopilot. Your heel rams his knee, and your other hand goes onto his shoulder, shoving him as best you can (given the difference in your heights) towards the floor. Already handicapped from your abuse of his grip, his gun clatters to the floor with him.

It all goes down in seconds, but to you it feels like hours-- time is drawn out to a painful slowness. You're not completely sure what you're trying to do to him until you move a hand to his neck and remove the one from his shoulder, and your weapon (you hadn't realised you'd been wearing it) nicks him, and you realise that the reason you haven't been able to process his face or features is because you'd been fixated on what was under all of it. Bright scarlet and poisonous looking, but you'd settle for anything. You now realise that the feeling you are experiencing is _ravenous_ , and whatever force had reanimated your body is now demanding some kind of intake to help stitch your throat back together and repair your damaged lungs. 

You realise that, while you were lost in thought, the warm creature you're propped up on has started trying to speak to you. It all sounds like garbled nonsense to you-- your ears are ringing and your head is too hazy to process any words, anyway. You can't glean what exactly he wants otherwise, either. You decide you don't care, and latch onto the wound you'd made, trying to get as much from it as you can. It isn't much-- humans have a fantastic clotting mechanism, after all, and if there's an anticoagulant you're meant to have, you're too fresh to have developed it yet. 

You hiss in frustration, tightening your grip as he squirms under you. He's jostling you enough you don't think you can get another clean cut, the yelling is getting on your nerves, and eventually you lose your will to tolerate any of it any longer and sink your fangs directly into the crook of his neck, holding fast to him in an attempt to keep him pinned (he seems to realise struggling is counter-intuitive quickly-- your fangs are so long that moving is more likely to harm him than you). The spray against your throat is overly salty, almost too bitter, and while it's not the glucose-rich troll blood your body wants, it's good enough to try anyway. You don't even mean to take as much as you do-- you're too distracted to notice him going from tense to limp, and then only care to pull back and examine things when his slowed heart rate in turn drastically reduces how much output you're getting from the wound. Eventually, you take the hint that you wont get much more out of a flat-laying body, and it's only after you've pulled back and are mulling over how to get the most of this that it dawns on you what you've done.

After all, you've never killed anyone on purpose before. Even now, you're unsure if you would consider your crime premeditated. Worse, you're not sure you regret it. On the contrary: the body you're laying on being anywhere between definitively-dying and dead opens up options. Were you feeling like yourself, and thinking like yourself, you might think to string him up for efficiency, or something similar, but you're not thinking things through that hard. Your rational thought is on mute, and you have an obstacle separating you from something you need. Fortunately, obstacles turn out to have a weakness for blades, and while the taste of bitter, salty metal is even worse combined with the too-soft texture of internal tissue, you don't end up putting any of it down for some time.

**>...**

You come to ( _really_ come to) hours later, curled in the corner smelling of iron and hands slick with viscera. The mess you've made is enough to disgust even you-- dead bodies aren't any fun, there's a reason you don't kill. Hours old, horribly maltreated corpses, you find, you like even less than fresh ones.You need a shower, first of all, and your clothes are going to have to be thrown out. You can't imagine how much bleach you'll need just to clean this-- oh. You pause, glancing at the corpse located centric to this Mess. Your tongue clicks, and it dawns on you that you're going to have to dispose of him somehow. Suddenly, you feel frustration towards yourself, realising your mistake-- you'd met his moirail, and knowing the uniform isn't a front is a sour pill to have to swallow.

Damn, you realise. You are probably going to have to move.


End file.
